


Violent Appetites

by xzombiexkittenx



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Cannibalism, Dom/sub Undertones, Hannibal 'actual cannibal' Lecter, It's about 40 years too late to save Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Mental Health Issues, No one saves WIll Graham, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Will Graham you are eating his design, get on board the clue train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/pseuds/xzombiexkittenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before Will even stepped through the front door of Hannibal’s home, he knew that this invitation to dinner was not just an invitation to dinner. At the end of a therapy session Hannibal had said, “Please, let me cook for you,” and called him, “Dear Will,” and touched his arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violent Appetites

**Author's Note:**

> The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust and hunger; the first is a perpetual call upon them to propagate their kind, the latter to preserve themselves. - Joseph Addison

Long before Will even stepped through the front door of Hannibal’s home, he knew that this invitation to dinner was not just an invitation to dinner. At the end of a therapy session Hannibal had said, “Please, let me cook for you,” and called him, “Dear Will,” and touched his arm. 

Hannibal’s hands were rough and scarred from years as a surgeon with the chemical scrubs and latex gloves; from years in his kitchen. Blunt, strong, precise. Will wanted the security that those hands promised. And not just security either. There was a competence and surety there that Will knew from his own time spent handling boat engines, or fishing lures, or conducting crime scenes. It wasn’t something he usually associated with more personal or sexual experience. Not when his empathy inevitably backfired and his own nerves bled out onto his partner.

When Will had just stared at Hannibal like an idiot, Hannibal’s fingers slid over the back of his wrist and hand before his face closed off and he leaned back in his chair. “Ah,” he said. “I must apologise, Will. I’m afraid I read this-” 

“No!” Will had blurted, catching at Hannibal’s sleeve. “I mean, yes. I…Tonight?”

Hannibal’s expression wasn’t a smile, exactly, but he looked very pleased. “Tomorrow. You have class and I would not ask you to drive so far in one day. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

Will knew perfectly well it was a bad idea. He knew Hannibal knew it was a bad idea. But the next day he ended his lectures, put on a tie, and drove to Baltimore for the second time in two days. Then an ice storm swept up from the South and took everyone by surprise. If Will had just gone straight home after his classes, or the storm held off for another few hours, he might have made it back to Wolf Trap without incident but he hadn’t, and it didn’t. Instead, Will was sitting in Hannibal’s dining room feeling sweaty, underdressed, and a little bit trapped. He’d ironed his shirt, but after a day of teaching it had somehow become unbearably crumpled. His jacket was cheap and he felt as though his tie was strangling him. He was very conscious of owning six dogs, all of which shed and smell.

None of that appeared to bother Hannibal who set his table as though he was expecting the Queen of England to pop by. Will wasn’t even sure he could repeat back what it was they were eating. Despite his discomfort and intense feelings of being too rough, too poor, too crazy to manage himself in company, Hannibal was gazing at him in a fond and encouraging sort of way.

“You’re trying to fatten me up,” Will accused mildly.

Hannibal finished chewing and neatly sliced off another bite, spearing the meat on his fork. “Nonsense,” he said. “You are delectable just the way you are.”

Will looked up from his meal and got as far as Hannibal’s mouth. He liked Hannibal’s mouth; his crooked teeth. There was something that settled Will about it. Hannibal’s inflections were hidden in his accent. His expressions were small and private. Will had to look, he had to look carefully to catch them. Hannibal never insisted on eye-contact and there was enough of teeth and tongue and lips to keep Will’s attention from wandering. 

He could feel himself blushing and told himself he was a grown man and not a pre-teen girl on her first date. This was not about hand-holding and despite Hannibal’s gentility, Will knew what he was being asked when he accepted the dinner invitation. 

It was probably weird that Hannibal and Alana almost had a thing once. Will thought it probably should be weird. It is weird.

“Is this weird?” he asked plaintively, trying not to clutch at his cutlery like he’d never seen a fork before. 

Hannibal’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “You’ll have to be more specific,” Hannibal said. The slight smile was hidden by his glass as he breathed in the wine’s bouquet and sipped delicately at it.  
“You, me, Alana, Jack…” Will said helplessly. “Friends, colleagues, patients, employees. I just…Isn’t it all a bit incestuous?”

Hannibal’s shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Perhaps. But when one has limited social circles we find company where we can.”

Will made it his business to gather a little information about Hannibal. Socialite, patron of the arts, psychiatrist, published in two fields, doctor, artist. Eligible bachelor. It was possible that Hannibal’s own inability to turn off his insight into the mind made it difficult for him to be in a relationship. There had been rumours of women, throughout the years, but no one who lasted and Hannibal was notoriously discreet.

“Your social circles aren’t limited.”

Hannibal watched Will eat for a long moment. “No,” he said. “I have many acquaintances.” He left the rest unsaid, for Will to read into, or not, as he chose. Will wondered if Hannibal genuinely considered them to be friends. He’d implied so more than once. Will wondered if Hannibal was lonely in his beautiful home with no one but his own shadow for company.

“Hannibal,” he said, reaching for the right words. Or any words at all. 

He came close to putting his fork down and suggesting they cut to the chase, but piece by piece Hannibal was opening up to him in the way that everyone inevitably did. He could ask Hannibal to forget dinner so they could skip to the fucking, and Hannibal would probably acquiesce because he liked Will. However, this was important to Hannibal. He had laid everything out, prepared his scene, chosen the wine, and the act of cooking, of feeding Will, was pleasing to him. So Will kept his peace until the dishes were stacked next to the sink and Hannibal took hold of Will’s belt, holding his hips firmly in place, preventing any escape. The other hand, Hannibal fit to Will’s throat gently, carefully. Will could feel the pressure against his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“I’ve thought about this,” Hannibal confessed into the still air between them. He brushed his lips over Will’s jaw and Will shivered, caught between his hands. “The dishes will keep,” he said. “Let me take you to bed.” When he stepped away, letting go, Will felt unmoored, swaying towards Hannibal without meaning to. 

Hannibal didn’t look back, as Will followed him up the stairs to his bedroom and Will was grateful. It seemed eminently possible that he might disappear at any moment. He felt as substantial as any of the shadows he stepped into; real enough, but not tangible.

Hannibal’s room was warm to the point of discomfort. Heavy curtains covered the windows and Will could hear the heating clicking in the walls. There was a separate temperature control just for the bedroom. Even the floor was warm.

“I dislike being cold, especially when I sleep,” Hannibal said, tapping at the controls until the hum of the heating turned off. 

Dissecting those around him wasn’t something Will actually enjoyed doing, but there were nightmares hiding in Hannibal’s bed, made of fragments of information. Whatever was wrong with Hannibal, he did an admirable job of containing it but Will was starting to see the cracks. It was almost reassuring, knowing that Hannibal was just as flawed, underneath, as everyone else.

Instead of talking about his own night terrors and sweating the sheets translucent, Will found his courage and smoothed his hands down Hannibal’s lapels. “We won’t be cold,” he promised. He couldn’t quite take the last step but he straightened up so he and Hannibal were virtually the same height, and tipped his head just as Hannibal leaned in and kissed him.

“Take your clothes off,” Hannibal said. “Before I do something irreparable to that awful tie.”

It startled a laugh out of Will and he did as he was told as Hannibal turned down the bed and laid towels down over the sheets. He shed clothing as he went, jacket and waistcoat set down neatly on a bench at the foot of the bed, tie tossed casually over the white of the comforter. The dark red silk was like a river of blood, like a promise Will couldn’t take his eyes off. He removed his own clothing automatically – jacket, horrible tie, button-down, shoes, socks – until Hannibal came to a stop.

For a second, Will thought Hannibal would say something, but instead he just stripped naked. There was muscle under those suits. Also greying chest hair, the blue tunnels of his veins, well-groomed pubic hair, his half-hard cock. Hannibal turned to drop his shirt into a laundry hamper and Will clenched his jaw, trying not to be horrified.

Most of the bodies Will saw were already long cold and none of their injuries would ever heal. Hannibal’s scars were old, white against the darker colour of Hannibal’s skin. He had grown into them. His back was littered with the bite from whips or belts and there were defensive wounds on his arms from where he tried to protect himself. Will hadn’t seen the evidence of systematic abuse like that on a living body since he was a police officer. 

Hannibal let Will stare at him, and read the history etched into his skin. Hannibal was the proverbial orphan from god-knew-where in the Baltic States, which meant a proverbial Soviet orphanage in the sixties and seventies.

Any sympathy or pity Will might have felt dried up when Hannibal turned back and they made eye contact. Will’s voice felt stoppered up in his throat and his heart seemed to stutter in his chest before it began to race. 

“The things I want to do to you,” Hannibal murmured. His expression was one of hunger but his eyes were the red-brown of dried blood and there was nothing behind them.

Didn’t they say that most people went into psychiatry to figure out what was wrong with themselves? 

Will couldn’t move, not to go closer, nor to run away. He was frozen until Hannibal stalked into reach and then he was stripping off his own shirt. It caught on his glasses and he fumbled them off, the frames clattering against the night-table. He could hear his own breathing, loud in the quiet room, the anxious staccato of his heartbeat, but he wanted it. No matter how much it scared him, Will wanted whatever Hannibal would give him.

Hannibal’s hand fisted in his hair, exposing Will’s throat to his teeth, and he left blood-warm bruises before he shoved Will backwards onto the bed. Will scrambled up the mattress only to be jerked back down as Hannibal forcibly removed his trousers and shorts. He reached out, fingers skimming over the damaged skin of Hannibal’s back, and Hannibal slapped the tender inside of his thigh hard enough to make the skin flush red.

Hannibal’s desires unfolded before Will. He did not require Will to be afraid, or in pain. Those things were incidental. It wasn’t nothing Will could see in Hannibal, it was immense control. And Hannibal’s desire for control was all-consuming. He wanted submission and surrender and if that did not come, then he wanted total subjugation. 

Will opened his legs for Hannibal to kneel between and Hannibal’s smile was all pleasure and sharp teeth. “Oh, _William_ ,” he said, delighted.

His hair tumbled down over his forehead as he licked Will’s cock. Hannibal’s fingers dug into the skin of Will’s thighs, and Will’s hips ached from the stretch. He flinched a little from the dry press of Hannibal’s thumb against his hole but then Hannibal was sucking his cock and Will gripped the towel underneath him to avoid doing the same to Hannibal’s hair. 

Hannibal let Will’s cock slip from his mouth and leaned over Will, opening his night stand to reach inside. Will caught a glimpse of Hannibal’s life through flashes of insight: He didn’t keep toys or other paraphernalia around the house. His partners were infrequent and Hannibal’s own pleasures could be taken without sexual aids. Lubricant in the bedside table, still five-sixths full. No condoms.

Will had the opportunity to say no to that. Logically, he probably should have. Hannibal pushed two fingers into him without warning and Will groaned and pushed back. His body gave way and he shuddered underneath Hannibal, feeling peeled and raw. Then Hannibal was folding him in half, teeth on Will’s throat, cock forcing Will open.

He was thick, painfully so, and Will cried out. Hannibal was close enough to kiss, but he held himself back, watching the emotions track across Will’s face. The times Will had fucked someone else had been exercises in avoiding eye contact but as Hannibal made a place for himself inside of Will, Will was flayed open, unable to close his eyes. Under the suits and the civility was a creature made of hunger and violence, born somewhere in the cold, and it was held back by the clench of Hannibal’s teeth, and the severity of his control. Will braced himself against the solid wood of the headboard and let himself be taken. His surrender only made it easier for Hannibal to dig bruises onto his skin, colour rising up like flares in the dark.

It took Will by surprise when he came, orgasm shocking through him so he squirmed on Hannibal’s cock. He was left shaking and unsteady. Hannibal pinned Will to the bed with his body weight; Will’s hips pulled up onto his thighs, knees over his shoulders so he had no leverage to struggle with. 

“You may fight me, if you like,” Hannibal said.

And Will, for all that he consented, did struggle. It was impossible not to when Hannibal’s grip closed off his throat and Will’s vision swam. He shoved ineffectually at Hannibal’s arms, eyes watering helplessly, tears running down his temples like sweat. He ached with overstimulation but no matter how he tried to crawl away from it, Hannibal had him.

Then he could breathe, but Hannibal’s hand was on his cock and Will couldn't help but flinch away. “Please,” he heard himself gasping, “please,” and he didn’t know if he meant for Hannibal to stop, or not. It didn’t matter though, because Hannibal was not stopping, and he kissed Will quiet, swallowing down his cries as Will slowly began to harden again. He had orchestrated Will’s pleasure, now he wanted to see it again, and so Will’s tired body capitulated. 

Will caught hold of Hannibal’s hair then and Hannibal came silently, biting down on Will’s wrist hard enough to draw blood. He pulled out, semen spilling over Will’s thighs, before he took Will back into his mouth. His teeth scraped over the thin, sensitive skin of Will’s cock before he closed his eyes and swallowed Will down, rough and insistent. Released from eye contact, Will dug his heel into Hannibal’s side, body arching up under the strain, and came again.

He returned to himself as Hannibal cleaned him with one of the towels. Carefully. Gently, even. “You are quite remarkable,” Hannibal said, and the kiss he pressed to the bite mark on Will’s wrist only stung a little. Will was asleep before he could properly formulate a reply.

He awoke, thrashing and terrified, in the small hours of the morning.

“Hush, Will,” Hannibal said, calm, as Will slowly took stock of himself: Hannibal’s bed, naked, wrists held pinned to the mattress.

Will stared up at the ceiling, panting, waiting for his heart-rate to slow. The dream was already slipping away from him. He only knew that in the dark there had been a thousand ghosts with a thousand hungry mouths, rising up, waiting to consume him.

Hannibal let go of his wrists and smoothed his sweat-matted curls back from his face. A light from the hall slanted across Hannibal’s face; a cut of cheekbone, the glint of one eye, the white of his teeth. He didn’t look tired, he looked solid. Will let himself be soothed – let Hannibal gather his trembling bones tight against his chest and hold him there.


End file.
